In Sixteenth century France a terrible religious war rages between persecuted Protestants known as Huguenots and Catholics loyal to King Charles IX (Ulrich Noethen), who is only a puppet ruler manipulated by his scheming mother Catherine de Medici (Hannelore Hoger). However, no less than the famed seer, Nostradamus, predicts the young Huguenot prince Henry of Navarre will rise to greatness as leader of a strengthened and unified France. Henry (Julien Boisselier) grows to manhood on the battlefield, having his first sight of bloodshed and forging fast friendships with warrior-poets Agrippa d’Aubigne (Joachim Król) and Guillaume du Bartas (Andreas Schmidt) and the brave and resourceful Rosny (Roger Casamajor). He also enjoys the first among many romantic conquests, until Catherine proposes a peace-keeping marriage with her wayward daughter Margot (Armelle Deutsch).
There has been much talk in recent years about the so-called pornographication of history on television in racy romps like Rome, The Tudors, The Borgias and Spartacus: Blood and Sand. Not just in reference to the amount of bare flesh and explicit sex on display, but the manner in which the narratives themselves are structured like porn: sensationalist, scandalous yet ultimately superflous episodes merely bridging the next violent or sexual encounter. Henry of Navarre, a handsome Franco-German co-production originally intended as a two-part miniseries, is far from the worst example of its type, being intelligently scripted and well acted for the most part, but is nonetheless comes from the same school of “shriek, take your clothes off and bleed” theatre as its bawdy HBO brethren.
Now don’t get me wrong. One cannot wholly begrudge this “blood and boobs” approach which occasionally injects zest and excitement and draws viewers into the fascinating and impassioned human drama underlining what might otherwise be a dry, academic history lesson, but too often the style reduces complex historical figures to one-dimensional caricatures defined by a single governing trait. Henry is conflicted, Rosny is shrewd, Charles IX is sweaty and ineffectual, Catherine de Medici is cold and calculating, Margot is fervently sensual. Unlike the complex, conflicted and tragic figure essayed by Isabelle Adjani to award-winning effect in La Reine Margot (1994), this Margot is portrayed as an hysterical, albeit delicious, slut first glimpsed getting spanked by her brother before Mom sinks teeth into her rump! Within minutes of meeting each other, Margot and Henry enjoy gleefully sadomasochistic sex, slapping and biting each other between billowing sheets, although she proves less enthusiastic at the wedding altar and has to be forced into saying: “I do.”
Despite the lengthy running time and the patching together of two episodes, the join is seamless and German television veteran Jo Baier does a fine job detailing the political manoeuvering and courtly intrigue. After the orgiastic celebration honouring the reluctant newlyweds degenerates into the nightmarish Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre with the slaughter of countless Huguenots, Henry flees the court (after first consoling himself by taking Margot roughly from behind) to mount a counter-offensive during which he grows smitten with Gabrielle d’Estrées (a luminous Chloé Stefani). In spite of Rosny’s doubts, Gabrielle proves a spirited partner and instrumental in securing victory for Henry, in a battle scene, cleverly and frugally shot from her point of view as she cowers inside a tent from wailing shadows. With Charles and his mother having passed away, their successor the camp Duc d’Anjou (Devid Striesow - looking like a gay Simon Le Bon) fails to impress the French populace by staffing his court with weird dwarves and drag queens, and succumbs to assassination. Henry wins the throne and sets in motion ambitious social reforms tackling poverty and sickness throughout France, but his troubles do not end. His beloved Gabrielle is poisoned by the disapproving Pope and Henry is forced into a yet another politically expedient marriage, this time to the frumpy Maria de Medici (Gabriela Maria Schmeide) who bears him a son but proves shrill, demanding and violently jealous.
The film wobbles in its occasional attempts to portray Henry as a messianic figure, notably the ill-judged intro wherein Nostradamus proclaims him “the One” as if he were Neo or Superman. “In an age of madness, he was the voice of reason” runs the tagline. However, as played by Julien Boisselier, Henry comes across indecisive, ineffectual and slightly smarmy at times, someone who triumphs more through the bravery, sacrifice and sage counsel of others than innate wisdom. But this rings true of the historical Henry, who was a difficult figure to get a handle on.
